Arthur rode alongside Artoria, the steady rhythm of their horses' hooves the only sound between them for a time. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and steel, the atmosphere thick with the anticipation of battle.
All preparations had been made. The knights were gathered. Their forces were in formation. Now, all that remained was to face the storm ahead.
As they reached the rallying point, the battlefield stretched before them like a canvas waiting to be stained with blood. The towering citadel of Vortigern loomed in the distance, a grim reminder of what awaited them.
Artoria brought her horse to a halt atop a small rise, where the assembled knights could see her clearly. Clad in silver armor, her cloak billowing slightly in the wind, she looked every bit the King of Knights—unyielding, resolute, and ready to lead them to victory.
Arthur watched her, remaining silent. This was her moment. This was their moment.
She took a breath and spoke, her voice clear and unwavering.
"Knights of the Round Table. Warriors of Camelot.
Today, we do not march for conquest. We do not raise our swords for ambition. We ride for something far greater.
We ride for our people. For every village razed by the White Dragon's wrath, for every family torn apart by his cruelty. We ride for the land we swore to protect, for the future we have yet to see.
Vortigern would have us kneel. He would see Camelot burn, its people scattered and broken. He calls himself the rightful ruler, but he knows nothing of kingship. A king is not born from tyranny. A king is not forged in greed.
A king is forged in the fires of sacrifice. A king is one who carries the burden of all, who stands not above, but beside his people. And I tell you now—I would sooner fall upon my own blade than let that monster wear my crown.
So I ask you not as your sovereign, but as a fellow knight. As one who has bled beside you, who has fought and suffered alongside you.
Will you stand with me? Will you fight for the dream we have built together? Will you carve our legend into history with sword and steel?"
A brief silence followed, but only for a moment. Then—
"FOR CAMELOT!"
The battle cry erupted like thunder, voices rising as one, shaking the very earth beneath them. The knights struck their weapons against their shields, fists clenched around the hilts of their swords, their spirits burning with renewed fervor.
Arthur, who had remained silent until now, turned to her, his expression unreadable for a moment before a slow smile formed. He said nothing, only inclining his head slightly—a silent acknowledgment, an unspoken approval.
Artoria's gaze met his, and for the briefest moment, something passed between them. A flicker of understanding, of shared resolve.
Then, she unsheathed Excalibur.
The golden light of the divine sword blazed like a second sun, reflecting off the knights' armor as she raised it high.
"Then let us ride! And may Camelot never fall!"
The castle walls trembled with the echoes of battle. The scent of blood and burnt flesh clung to the air, the remnants of their brutal advance through Vortigern's stronghold. Arthur wiped his blade clean on the tunic of a fallen soldier before stepping forward, his gaze locking onto Artoria.
She did not falter. Her emerald eyes burned with unwavering resolve, the weight of her kingdom, her people, resting upon her shoulders. There was no fear—only the determination to see this through.
And then, they stepped into the throne room.
The heavy wooden doors groaned as they were pushed open, revealing a chamber of utter darkness. The room was vast, grand in its construction, but decayed—ruined by the corruption that festered within.
At the heart of it stood the Vile King.
A presence that defied the natural order. A shadow deeper than black, swallowing the light, warping the very air around it. His armor was dark as the void, an abyssal entity more than man. And yet, it was not the armor, nor even the physical form, that struck true fear into Arthur.
It was the gaping wound in reality itself.
Vortigern was not merely a king turned tyrant—he was something beyond human, something born from the madness of an age ending. A creature that devoured hope and light, the last calamity of Britain.
And then, he moved.
There was no signal, no declaration—only an overwhelming surge of power as a black blade descended upon them, howling with the hunger of an endless abyss.
"Back up! Retreat!" Arthur's voice rang out, but it was barely heard over the roar of splitting air.
A wave of black magic erupted toward them, swallowing everything in its path. Arthur wasted no time, bringing his sword forward, golden and blue light igniting along its length. He could not hesitate.
"Excalibur Reid."
The name was spoken as a command, a decree. Power built up and then released, a beam of divine radiance slamming against the approaching darkness.
The two forces clashed—light against shadow, divine against the profane. It was not a battle of blades, but of principles, of existence itself. The impact sent a shockwave through the chamber, splintering stone and sending debris flying.
But the darkness did not consume the light.
Vortigern's blade, the devourer of holy swords, which sought to erase all that was sacred, wavered against the brilliance of Excalibur and Excalibur Reid. The monster's hollow, twisted face betrayed a flicker of something unexpected—surprise.
Artoria did not waste that moment.
A burst of speed—no, not speed, but sheer willpower manifesting into motion. In an instant, she was upon him, Excalibur crashing down with all the might of the chosen king. The golden light of her sword seared through the blackened air, forcing Vortigern to react.
Their blades met.
The throne room quaked under the force of their clash, sparks flying as steel met the impossible darkness of the corrupted dragon king.
"You're strong, King Arthur," Vortigern rumbled, his voice reverberating like an ancient, dying star. "However, it won't be enough."
Artoria's teeth clenched, but her strikes did not falter. Her swordsmanship had long surpassed the man who once ruled before her. Every movement was precise, calculated—not just strength, but skill honed to its peak.
Vortigern countered, but she was faster. He was powerful, overwhelming even, but she could read his movements. His power was immense, but his skill did not match hers.
Arthur saw his chance.
In perfect synchronization, he dashed forward, his own blade aiming for Vortigern's neck. A strike that would end this in an instant.
But before the blow could land—
Something shifted.
The darkness twisted, coiling unnaturally as if the very air had conspired against them.
A trap.
Vortigern's form flickered like a mirage, and suddenly, he was not where he had been. Arthur's blade sliced through nothingness, and in that split second of imbalance—
A crushing force slammed into Artoria's side.
The impact was monstrous, sending her hurtling through the air like a ragdoll. She crashed against the far wall, stone crumbling under the sheer force. A choked breath left her lips as she hit the ground, her armor dented, her body momentarily stunned.
Arthur's eyes widened.
"Artorius—!"
Vortigern did not give him the luxury of hesitation.
With a guttural growl, the monster turned its abyssal gaze toward Arthur, and the very air grew heavy with impending destruction.
Arthur barely had time to react.
A mass of seething darkness descended upon him—Vortigern's blade, a weapon that did not merely cut, but consumed, erasing all that it touched. Arthur brought Excalibur Reid up just in time, bracing as the impact sent tremors through his arms. Sparks erupted where their swords met, the clash of light and shadow birthing violent, chaotic energy.
The force behind the blow was immense.
Arthur's muscles burned as he held his ground, his heels digging into the cracked stone beneath him. He hadn't expected the attack to come so suddenly, but his instincts held true. Even as he fought, he reached out with his senses—Artoria was fine. He could feel it. That light that had cloaked her form just before she was struck—it had protected her. He did not know its nature, but she was unharmed.
And then, behind him, a surge of raw, holy energy erupted.
A beacon of golden fire.
The heat from it was nearly overwhelming, as if the air itself bent beneath its presence. From where Artoria had been flung, she rose once more, her body encased in a radiance that rivaled the sun. In one hand, she held the sword of promised victory—Excalibur. In the other, the pillar that upheld the world—Rhongomyniad.
Arthur's eyes flickered toward her, barely a moment's glance, but that was all he needed.
She was ready.
Arthur shifted his stance just in time as Artoria launched herself forward, Excalibur flashing through the air like a golden comet. Vortigern twisted to block her, his abyssal sword rising to meet hers.
Light clashed against darkness once more.
The moment their blades met, the very castle trembled beneath their feet. A shockwave blasted outward, cracking stone and sending debris raining down like meteors. The sheer force of the clash sent ripples through the fabric of the throne room, the air splitting apart from the divine and corrupt magics colliding.
Arthur didn't hesitate.
With Artoria locking Vortigern in place, he moved. His feet barely touched the ground as he dashed forward, his grip tightening on Excalibur Reid. The blade hummed in his hands, reacting to the sheer intensity of battle, as if it, too, thirsted for the enemy's downfall.
Vortigern sensed him coming.
"You pests are beyond irritating." His voice was low, guttural, like a beast that had not yet been tamed.
Vortigern made to retreat, his massive form shifting unnaturally, shadows coiling around him like living things. But Arthur would not allow it. He pivoted at the last second, adjusting his angle mid-stride, and then—
His blade struck true.
The sound of steel meeting flesh was sharp, clean, followed by the splatter of crimson against the ruined floor. Arthur's strike carved through the side of the beast's torso, splitting darkened armor and rending flesh beneath.
Vortigern staggered, a snarl twisting his monstrous features. His blood dripped onto the stone—black, tainted, yet sizzling as if it rejected the very air around it.
He had wounded him.
But there was no time to dwell on it.
Before Vortigern could so much as recover, Artoria was there, her presence crashing down like a divine hammer. She was already mid-motion, Rhongomyniad raised high, its spiraled form brimming with unfathomable power.
The spear of the end descended.
Vortigern barely managed to react.
At the last second, his blade came up, his instincts forcing him into a desperate defense. Rhongomyniad collided against it, a pillar of pure order against a sword born of chaos. The impact sent shockwaves tearing through the throne room, and for a brief moment, the two forces seemed evenly matched.
But then Artoria twisted.
A subtle shift in grip. A change in angle.
And suddenly, Vortigern's guard was shattered.
The force of Rhongomyniad's strike sent him hurtling backward, his massive form crashing through what remained of the castle's throne, reducing it to splinters and rubble. Dust and debris exploded outward, momentarily obscuring him from view.
Arthur exhaled sharply, shifting back into a ready stance beside Artoria. Their breaths were steady, controlled—years of battle experience keeping them poised.
The dust settled, and from within the wreckage, something stirred.
Vortigern rose once more, his abyssal form shifting unnaturally, the shadows around him thickening, twisting, and growing.
His wounds were closing. The blackened blood that had spilled onto the ground seemed to slither back toward him, pulled by an unseen force.
His laughter rumbled low and deep, distorted like something not meant for human ears.
"Did you think that would be enough?"
And then, with a pulse of unimaginable power, the nightmare surged forward once more.
Arthur didn't hesitate.
Artoria had already launched forward, golden light trailing behind her like the wake of a falling star. He followed in her shadow, his own Excalibur Reid humming with power, its light tempered by his unshakable will.
Before them stood the abyss itself, clad in the shape of a man.
Vortigern.
The usurper, the false king, the one who had cast Albion into ruin. His presence alone was suffocating, as if the very world rejected his existence.
Yet, he did not falter.
Arthur would not falter.
Steel met steel.
Excalibur crashed against Vortigern's abyssal blade in a strike that split the air apart. Arthur's muscles burned with the force of the impact, his stance digging deep into the ruined stone beneath them. Vortigern did not give way. Darkness writhed around him, an abyssal tide that swallowed light itself.
And then, before Vortigern could retaliate—
A second strike.
Artoria descended from above, Rhongomyniad cutting through the air like the lance of a god.
The spear of the end, the very foundation of the world, came crashing down.
Vortigern twisted his blade just in time, catching the spiraled lance against his abyss-forged steel. The collision sent a wave of raw energy outward, shattering what remained of the once-great hall. The entire castle groaned, as if the land itself wept beneath the weight of their battle.
Arthur saw his opportunity.
With Artoria locking Vortigern in place, he shifted, repositioning in an instant. His blade cut through the air, aimed directly at the abomination's exposed side. Excalibur Reid sought flesh.
The strike landed.
The holy sword carved into Vortigern's torso, its divine energy searing into his corrupted form. Blackened blood sprayed outward, hissing against the air, rejecting existence itself.
Vortigern let out a guttural snarl, his abyssal form shifting. He grew. The wound closed almost instantly, the abyss within him devouring reality to sustain itself.
It wasn't enough.
Before Arthur could step back, a monstrous clawed hand lashed out at him.
Too fast—
And yet, it never landed.
Golden light surged between them.
Artoria.
She had twisted her grip, her free hand swinging Excalibur in a single fluid motion. Her blade intercepted Vortigern's clawed strike mid-air, driving him back with an explosion of divine radiance.
Arthur exhaled, nodding slightly. No words were needed.
They moved in tandem—two reflections of the same unshakable will.
Vortigern swung his abyssal blade in a devastating arc, aiming to cleave through them both.
Arthur stepped forward first. He met the strike head-on.
Their blades collided, the force behind the blow nearly driving Arthur to his knees. His grip on Excalibur Reid tightened as sparks erupted between them, light and shadow warring in the air.
And then, as he held Vortigern in place—
Artoria struck.
Rhongomyniad thrust forward like the spear of an executioner. Its spiraled tip bore down upon Vortigern's chest, reality fracturing where it touched.
A direct hit.
Vortigern let out a monstrous roar, his form warping, but he did not fall. He twisted unnaturally, his abyssal presence expanding, and with it—
Another attack.
A second strike, a counter aimed directly at Artoria.
Arthur moved before thought.
His Excalibur Reid came in from the side, intercepting Vortigern's strike with a force that sent cracks running through the ground beneath him. He gritted his teeth, muscles burning as he forced the monstrosity's blade back.
Not a single attack would reach her.
Artoria moved as if she had expected it.
She did not hesitate.
With her blade in one hand and her lance in the other, she brought both down at once.
The sword of promised victory cleaved through the dark.
The pillar of the world struck against chaos.
A brilliant cross of gold and silver light erupted from the point of impact, blinding in its purity.
Vortigern reeled.
His monstrous form shook, as if the weight of their combined attack had finally begun to take hold.
Arthur knew it. Now was the time.
"Artoria—!" His voice was sharp, decisive.
She understood instantly.
Arthur moved first, Excalibur Reid glowing with divine power.
With a single step, he surged forward. His strike came in low, a precise, focused slash aimed directly for Vortigern's side—the very same spot he had cut before.
Vortigern twisted, attempting to evade, but Artoria was already there.
She pivoted with perfect grace, Rhongomyniad thrusting forward once more—this time aimed at his exposed chest.
Vortigern could not avoid both.
Arthur's strike landed first, his blade cutting through abyssal flesh. The impact sent tremors through the false king's form.
And then, an instant later—
Rhongomyniad found its mark.
The tip of the lance pierced through Vortigern's chest, golden light consuming the darkness that writhed beneath his flesh.
For the first time—
Vortigern screamed.
The abyss recoiled. The hole in reality that had sustained him began to collapse.
Arthur did not stop.
He adjusted his grip, drawing his sword back as the divine energy around it flared to its peak.
"Ex—"
Artoria moved beside him. The brilliance of her Excalibur surged, its radiance eclipsing the battlefield.
"—calibur!"
The twin swords of Gaia's will struck at once.
A cataclysmic surge of divine energy erupted outward, engulfing Vortigern whole.
The darkness that had consumed Albion for so long was finally being undone.
Vortigern's monstrous form began to break apart, his abyssal presence unraveling beneath the sheer weight of their combined might.
And then—
The false king fell.
Darkness was sundered.
And light remained.
A deafening roar split the battlefield as a massive dragon's neck manifested from the darkness, its gaping maw devouring everything in its wake—shattered weapons, lifeless soldiers, and the crumbling ruins of the citadel. The land itself seemed to reject the notion of peace, reshaping the broken remnants of Britain into a monstrous form. Vortigern was no longer merely a man; he was the embodiment of the island, a dragon in flesh and will. He had forsaken his humanity long ago, consumed by the blood of the beast he had once sought power from.
Arthur exhaled sharply, steadying his grip on Excalibur Reid. His golden blade gleamed with restrained power, but it remained inert, unwilling to unleash its full might. He frowned. Does it not deem Vortigern worthy?
"How annoying," Arthur muttered, eyes narrowing. He had no doubts about the danger before them, yet the divine sword had its own judgment.
Beside him, Artoria assessed the abomination before them with a sharp gaze, golden hair whipping in the winds conjured by the dragon's presence. She could feel the weight of the battlefield, the air thick with malice, the land trembling beneath Vortigern's sheer presence.
"Arthur, prepare yourself," she warned, her voice steady despite the chaos. "It seems our enemy refuses to fall. Were I at my full strength, I could likely destroy it with Excalibur alone… but as I am now, I will have to call upon Rhongomyniad at full potency."
Arthur turned his eyes toward her. He knew what that meant—this was no ordinary opponent. Rhongomyniad was a weapon of absolute destruction, a pillar that upheld the laws of the world itself. For Artoria to consider wielding it at full force spoke volumes of the threat they faced.
Vortigern let out a distorted chuckle, his draconic form contorting as more of his body twisted into the monstrous shape of a black dragon. His very presence was a wound upon the world, a contradiction that defied reason.
"You cling to such fragile concepts," he sneered, his voice guttural, layered with something beyond mortal comprehension. "King of Knights, no matter how many times you fight, you will never change the fate of this wretched land. This island belongs to me—it always has, and it always will."
Artoria's grip on Rhongomyniad tightened. "No," she declared, her voice unshaken. "You are not Britain. You are its blight. And I will see you eradicated."
She raised Rhongomyniad high, the sacred spear humming with an overwhelming surge of magical energy. The world itself seemed to respond, reality warping as luminous ley lines spread outward, converging upon the divine weapon. The sheer radiance of it burned through the darkness Vortigern exuded, carving through the corrupt air.
"Light, may you be released from the ends of the world!"
A surge of energy erupted from the spear as golden sigils spiraled outward, forming the very foundation of reality.
Arthur instinctively took a step forward, positioning himself between Artoria and Vortigern. He knew what was coming—he had seen her wield Rhongomyniad before, and he understood the price of unleashing its full power. His duty was clear: he would not allow Vortigern to interrupt her.
The dragon roared, lunging forward with unnatural speed. Its gaping maw sought to consume the King of Knights whole, but Arthur was already in motion.
Clang!
Excalibur Reid clashed against the dragon's corrupted claws, its impact shaking the battlefield. Arthur gritted his teeth as his blade barely held against the sheer force of Vortigern's monstrous strength.
Artoria stepped forward, twisting Rhongomyniad in a precise arc before stabbing forward—its golden tip tore through Vortigern's scales, causing the abomination to reel back with a snarl.
Arthur moved in tandem with her, his strikes measured and precise, ensuring that every attack from Vortigern never reached her. Whenever Vortigern's claws lashed out, Arthur was there, parrying the blow. Whenever the dragon shifted to strike Artoria, he intercepted with swift counterattacks, forcing it onto the defensive.
Their teamwork was seamless, honed through battle and experience. Arthur was not merely protecting her—he was ensuring that she had the time needed to fully release Rhongomyniad's might.
Vortigern, realizing their strategy, let out a guttural snarl. His form twisted again, dark mist rising from his body as his shape distorted. His tail lashed out toward Artoria, aiming to crush her before she could finish her attack.
Arthur reacted instantly.
He pivoted, Excalibur Reid flashing as it met the tail mid-strike. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the ground, but he held firm, preventing the attack from reaching her.
"Arthur, move!" Artoria commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos.
He obeyed without hesitation, leaping aside just as the final surge of energy reached Rhongomyniad's tip.
"Split the heavens and tether the earth, anchor of the storm!"
A blinding pillar of golden light erupted from the spear, illuminating the battlefield with divine radiance. The very fabric of the world trembled as the full power of Rhongomyniad was unleashed.
"This is the wedge of light that stands at the ends of the world!"
She thrust the spear forward, and the air split apart.
"Rhongomyniad!"
The beam of pure destruction surged forth, a spiraling torrent of reality-defying power that struck Vortigern directly in the chest.
The dragon let out a final, agonized roar as its form was torn asunder, its body unraveling into fragments of darkness. The land itself seemed to breathe as the weight of his existence faded, the corruption retreating beneath the overwhelming light.
As the dust settled, all that remained of Vortigern was silence. The blackened, twisted remnants of his form crumbled away, fading into the void. The battlefield lay in ruins, but the vile king was no more.
Arthur lowered Excalibur Reid, his gaze still wary as he surveyed the scene. Artoria remained motionless for a moment, her grip on Rhongomyniad tight before she finally exhaled, allowing the weapon to return to its dormant state.
"It's over," she said, though her tone carried no relief—only certainty.
Arthur nodded, though he knew that peace, if it ever came, would not last forever. Still, for now, they had won.
Arthur's gaze flickered toward her, concern settling in the furrow of his brow. Artoria stood at his side, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He could see it—the fatigue weighing down her frame, the tremble in her fingers despite how tightly she clenched them into fists. He knew why. She wasn't supposed to push herself this far, not in her current condition.
And yet, she had.
As she took an unsteady step forward, her emerald eyes shimmered—not just with exhaustion, but with something else. Something ethereal clung to her form, wrapping around her like an unseen mantle. Arthur's breath hitched for a fraction of a second. Was that… a divine aura?
He barely had time to dwell on it before she leaned into him, her weight pressing against his side as she sought a moment's respite.
Arthur didn't hesitate. He caught her with steady hands, bracing her as she exhaled sharply against his shoulder. She was burning up—her body was alight with an unseen fire, one that didn't scorch flesh but seared from within. She didn't cry out, didn't falter, but he could tell it hurt.
"Artoria," he murmured, voice low, as his sharp eyes drifted toward the entrance of the ruined citadel.
Footsteps.
A moment later, he felt them too—the presence of the others, drawing closer.
"The rest of the Knights are coming," he warned.
Artoria tensed slightly, nodding as she straightened with visible effort, pushing herself off of him. It was clear she didn't want to be seen like this. Even now, she bore the weight of a king's dignity. But she couldn't stop the way her body protested, how the aftereffects of unleashing Rhongomyniad ravaged her from within. The burning hadn't faded. It wasn't a wound, yet it might as well have been one.
Her gaze flickered toward the entrance just as the Knights of the Round Table stormed inside, their armor gleaming even in the dust-choked air. They moved as warriors expecting battle—hands on their weapons, eyes scanning for threats.
Gawain was the first to step forward, his expression hardening as he took in the state of the battlefield. His golden eyes found Artoria immediately, narrowing as he took in her posture, her labored breath.
"Your Majesty." His voice carried the weight of both duty and worry. "Are you injured?"
Bedivere wasn't far behind, his silver hair dusted with debris, yet his focus was entirely on her. "You're pale…" He hesitated. "No, you're—" His breath hitched slightly as he, too, noticed the faint divine radiance clinging to her.
Lancelot, ever the silent observer, kept his hand on his sword, his calculating gaze flickering between Artoria and Arthur. The atmosphere in the room shifted. The Knights could see something was wrong, even if they didn't understand what.
Artoria swallowed the pain and straightened her posture. "I am fine," she said evenly, her voice steady despite the burn in her bones. "The battle has ended."
Gawain didn't look convinced. "You don't look fine."
"It is nothing that will hinder me."
Arthur remained silent for a moment, watching the exchange. He could tell she didn't want to discuss it—not here, not now. And yet, the concern of her knights was valid.
Artoria exhaled, glancing down at her own hands. The divine glow was still there, faint but undeniable. It wasn't something she could simply will away.
Arthur finally spoke.
"She'll recover," he said simply, cutting through the tension. His gaze flickered to Artoria, something unreadable in his blue eyes. "But not if she keeps pushing herself like this."
Artoria turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. Something unspoken passed between them—an understanding, an acknowledgment of their burdens.
"…I will rest when I am able," she conceded at last.
Gawain still looked troubled but nodded. "Then allow us to ensure no further threats remain."
Lancelot sheathed his sword with a quiet nod. "The enemy has been eradicated, but we must remain vigilant."
Arthur let out a small breath, turning his gaze toward the remnants of the battlefield. The dust was still settling, and though they had won, the weight of it all still lingered.
For now, however, they had survived.
And that was enough.